


Maple

by bmouse



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with original materials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maple

Nobody says anything when he starts growing it out. It's a harmless eccentricity, cozy at the end of a very long list and not what they're watching for. When the ends are brushing his shoulders he starts tying it back in the workshop and Yashamaru jokes that if he wants to wrest away the title of 'Most Often Mistaken For A Woman' he needs only to name the time and place of the match.

His obnoxious sister proposes they band together and form the league of 'God, You Wish You Hadn't Messed With That Skinny Prettyboy' and he is forced to point out the error in collecting membership dues from dead enemy nin, no matter how numerous. She laughs like a banshee and claps him on the shoulder. Sasori frowns at the casual contact and is summarily ignored. The twins are, as usual, a law unto themselves; not overawed by him and not afraid.

It is a dwindling subset. 

On the day the edge of the ponytail tangles in his scarf he decides it's time. Grandmother finds him holding the knife to his neck in front of the mirror. 

She purses her lips, critically.

"No. Higher." she says.

"Really?" he asks, but moves the knife higher to to just below his ears.

"Yes, the scalp plate recesses a bit, and you'll want at least an inch for weaving before you add the glue."

Moving, the knife makes a soft hissing sound. He examines his new handful: the tail of hair ends in a good clean line, easy to work with. His head is lighter, and curiously, a similar lightness constructs itself in his chest. Finally.

He walks past Grandmother into the workshop, carefully moves the lid off the storage chest in the corner, runs his hands reverently over the puppet, threads him, curls his fingers and lifts him out. Brittle, maple-red strands drift to the floor. Original materials always come with limitations, fortunately he realized he had access to an authentic replacement. 

The puppet sits gracefully on the workbench, eyes half-lidded, hands folded across his chest. Sasori tilts his head down for easy access, smiles faintly, bows.

"Father, thank you for being patient."


End file.
